That early July morning dawns clear and bright and by mid-afternoon, the air hangs heavy, suffusing the atmosphere with a lethargy that makes almost everyone in Surrey hide indoors like vampires. The buzzing of numerous fans can be heard through the open windows of Number Four Privet Drive, taunting the sweaty raven haired boy bent over the camellia shrubs by the shed.
Harry has been outside since early morning, trimming, pruning and weeding the garden in preparation for the Dursleys’ evening fiesta, where a number of Grunnings top-notch executives are to come over and discuss a “very important business proposition” that could considerably escalate Vernon’s salary. As it is, Harry has been scrubbing, cleaning and gardening for the better part of two days. Not that he minds much; in fact, he welcomes the hard menial jobs and complementary exhaustion that comes afterwards. If being worked and starved like a Malfoy house elf is what it takes to keep the thoughts of Sirius at bay, then so be it.
Harry is getting better at recognizing the memory triggers which send him into the all-familiar, stomach twisting guilt traps. So each time a memory wave comes, he just scrubs harder, washes the dishes in gradually more scalding water, and digs his fingers so hard into the soil that his fingernails bleed. Physical pain, he learns, is instrumental in keeping the other kind of pain at bay. Because once the other kind sets in, there are no distractions. Harry knows that sooner or later he will have to face the truth, the tears that constantly prick the inside of his face like sharp needles, the cavity in his chest that is larger than he is, eating away at him like corrosive poison. Because Harry deserves to feel that pain, that monumental guilt of having killed Sirius.
But not today, Harry tells himself as he laboriously digs his fingers into the soil until he can grab the crabgrass roots and pull them out, not even wincing when his knuckles graze over a sharp stone. He then takes the bottle of vinegar and sprinkles the earth with it, careful not to get too close to the camellia shrubs and unwittingly kill them off. Like he killed Sirius.
In the heat of the afternoon, the poignant acrid smell of vinegar reminds Harry just how dry his mouth is, but he knows better than to go into the kitchen when Uncle Vernon is sitting there. So he wipes his bleeding hand onto his oversized t-shirt and swallows down his thirst as he continues to angrily weed.
“Boy!” Vernon shouts half an hour later, wobbling into the garden, his face red and covered in beads of sweat. Harry notices that he is holding a tub of chocolate flavoured ice-cream underneath one arm, and a crumpled ball of pound notes in the other, which he is holding rather impatiently towards him. “Go to the corner shop at the end of Wisteria Walk and get two new tubs of ice cream. Vanilla and chocolate, and mind you they better be the Blue Ribbon ones, not those tasteless Soft Scoop ones that melt after two minutes.”
Harry stares blankly at his uncle for a moment and then says: “Uncle Vernon, you know I’m not allowed to leave the property. The blood wards--”
“Now listen here boy,” Vernon says, brandishing a meaty finger at Harry, “I will have none of your cheek today, is that clear? We took you in out of the goodness of our hearts, and I don’t believe it’s too much to ask that you do a few chores from time to time. Your aunt is busy enough as it is today!”
Harry doesn’t think that getting your manicure done is the same sort of busy as spending hours weeding and cleaning, but he is smart enough not to say so to his uncle. Still, Vernon cannot possibly expect him to leave the protection of the blood wards for some sodding ice cream, can he?
“But Professor Dumbledore--”
“Do I need to remind you what happens when you disobey me?” the corpulent man asks, his lips curling into a crooked sneer as his meaty fist begins to wiggle his belt.
No, Harry did not need to be reminded. “I’ll need my wand,” he says after a moment, rationalizing that he can do without another beating. The old welts are still smarting.
“Oh no, you won’t see that stupid stick until you go back to that freaky hocus pocus school of yours!” Vernon says as he wobbles some more towards Harry, his face becoming somewhat purple form the effort.
Harry grits his teeth but says nothing else. Ever since the Dementor incident the previous summer, Vernon insisted on confiscating Harry’s wand, trunk and magical books for the duration of the holidays, keeping them locked in the safe behind that hideous dog painting Aunt Petunia keeps on the wall.
“I’ll go change my t-shirt,” he says after a while, watching as Vernon gives his stained top a disapproving look, wrinkling his face in disgust.
“You do that,” he grunts, throwing the money at Harry before turning on his heels and wobbling back towards the kitchen door.
Picking the crumpled notes from the lawn, Harry places them inside his pocket and follows his uncle back inside the house, careful to leave his dirty shoes outside. The last thing he wants is having to explain mud stains on Aunt Petunia’s cream coloured carpet. For a moment, he watches Vernon deposit himself into an armchair, turning the TV on and beginning to button the remote until the fake laughs of a dumb comedy show fill the living room. He probably wouldn’t hear if Harry were to slip into the bedroom in search for his wand, but even so, he would have no way of opening the safe. Not without magic.
Sighting in resignation, Harry makes his way up the stairs and disappears inside Dudley’s second bedroom, a strange idea suddenly popping in his mind.
As it turns out, there is one thing that Vernon Dursley didn’t confiscate, and that is Harry’s invisibility cloak. Turning it inside out and hiding it underneath a pile of Dudley’s old toys wasn’t a rotten idea after all, Harry muses as he walks down Privet Drive hidden underneath its silky folds, trying to ignore the droplets of sweat that begin to run down his back. Still, it is better than walking outside the wards with no cover at all. That way even if his presence is detected, at least he won’t be seen. Not straight away, at any rate.
Veering left, Harry hurries down towards the dark alleyway that connects Privet Drive to Wisteria Walk, noticing the way the heat quivers from the asphalt and gives the neighbouring houses an almost nimbus quality. It is quite a contrast to the foggy frost that enveloped the alleyway the previous summer when the Dementors glided over it with their despairing aura, and Harry is thankful that this time his skin is not prickling with the warning of anything suspicious. Everything is still and quiet and hot. Oppressively hot, he corrects himself as he slides his spectacles back up his nose and wipes his sweaty brows with the back of his hand.
But as he starts walking down that deserted alleyway, Harry suddenly realizes there is something deeply unsettling about the thick silence of the summer afternoon, and the eerie way the air is so still it seems to be holding its breath. Like the calm before a storm, a little voice inside his head suddenly adds before he can quell his weariness.
It is not long after that Harry finds himself unable to shake off the feeling of being watched. Studied, even, his movements assessed in an almost predatory way by a pair of eyes in the distance, as if whoever is watching him can see straight through his invisibility cloak and knows exactly where he is headed. Hurrying his steps, Harry’s breathing becomes increasingly shallow, the concrete walls closing in on him in a foreboding way. Suddenly feeling suffocated, he breaks into a run but, just before he is about to emerge from the other end of the alleyway, he knocks against an invisible barrier and falls hard to the floor as his cloak flies off his shoulders and ends up in a nearby bush.
It then all happens so fast that Harry hardly has time to blink. In quick succession, he hears the sound of three decisive apparition cracks not far behind him and just before he has a chance to stand up, thick ropes bind his legs and arms so tightly that he groans in pain.
He knows it’s pointless to fight against Incarcerous, but the conjuration is so powerful that he can’t even turn his head to look behind him. The sound of approaching steps makes his skin crawl, his heart beating so fast it threatens to come out of his chest, almost as if in tune with the clinking of boots on concrete.
“Well, well, well, M. Potter. You are a reckless lad, aren’t you?” a regal voice purrs from somewhere above Harry. “You thought we wouldn’t detect you under that tatty old thing?”
“Fuck off Malfoy!” Harry spits.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, such foul language,” Lucius chides, turning Harry around with a kick in his ribs. Harry doesn’t want to give the older man the satisfaction, so instead of groaning from the pain, he bites his bottom lip as hard as he can. He tries not to shudder as Lucius’ chiseled features come into view.
“Though I suppose one cannot count on those filthy muggles to teach you proper manners. Or that felon your parents chose as your godfather. Such a pity you didn’t get to say goodbye, but then again, one would think you are accustomed to people dying around you,” Lucius says, his lips curling into a cold sneer. “Perhaps I ought to demonstrate what happens to little boys who don’t respect their elders,” he says, pointing his wand at the bush behind Harry. “Incendio!”
“No!” Harry exclaims as the bush erupts in flames, the smoke so pungent that it makes his eyes sting.
“Crying Harry? I don’t suppose that mangy old invisibility cloak belonged to your dear dead father. That’s right, I know of it. Even in his first year he was insufferably arrogant, brandishing it around Hogwarts as if it were a precious stone in a goblin-made chalice. A wonderful artefact really…such a pity it had to burn. But, as you know, sacrifices have to be made, and if that is wat it takes to teach you a lesson, then so be it.”
“You bastard!” Harry spits, his nostrils stinging from the smoke. He wants to wipe the sneer of Lucius’s perfectly sculpted face, but he can’t. Every time he tries to move, the ropes only wrap around him tighter, cutting off his circulation. From the corner of his eye, he sees the other two Death Eaters approach him, their cranium like masks plastered onto their faces, their black robes billowing behind them as they walk.
“Oh, Harry, you never learn, do you?” Lucius asks, as his cold grey eyes bore into Harry’s angry green orbs. “Crucio!”
This time, Harry can’t stop himself from screaming; the agony is so piercing that his body begins to convulse despite the tight ropes, his muscles pulling themselves into unnatural angles. And just when he thinks he will pass out from the pain, Lucius points his wand at him and calls off the incantation. “That will have to suffice for now. I can’t deny the Dark Lord the pleasure of torturing you himself, now can I?”
Harry doesn’t have time to say anything else, because in the next moment, Lucius unceremoniously grabs his arm and disapparates into thin air, followed by the other two Death Eaters.
Later that day, a curious stray cat uncertainly sniffles the remnants of a burned cloak before it wrinkles its nose and leaps away.
All is quiet on Wisteria Walk.
Three weeks later…
It is for the best, Snape tells himself, that the summer is predicted to be an unusually cold one. This way, the child standing before him is less at odds with his surroundings. Not that Cokeworth was ever prone to be particularly cheerful, regardless of the weather; in fact, quite the opposite can be said of the little industrial town with its polluted river, grey landscapes and grimy buildings, but at least now the boy’s mood blends in with his surroundings.
Snape watches as Potter scans his seemingly muggle dwelling, resting for a moment on his mother’s portrait, perhaps probing her dull eyes and dark hair for hints of hidden beauty. But then they glaze over once more, as he stands awkwardly in the hallway of Spinner’s End, short and skinny for his age, with his father’s wild hair and mother’s eyes, his scar swollen and blotched. He seems to be lost in his own world, his response to the change of environment hardly altered from when he stood in the Headmaster’s office, merely an hour earlier.
It is somewhat disconcerting, Snape thinks, how easily Potter accepted to spend the summer under his watch. Not that he had a choice in the matter, but he expected the insufferable brat to come out of his disturbing stupor long enough to make a scene, demand some other living arrangements, or at least protest at having to spend an entire six weeks with the dungeons bat. But Potter did neither of these things. In fact, he merely looked up at the headmaster to acknowledge he had heard him, before averring his gaze to his mangy trainers and sitting, for the duration of the meeting, insensate as a stone.
“This way,” he says after realizing Potter would be happy to stand there all day if he did not say anything. He even places a guiding hand on the boy’s bony shoulder in an attempt to steer him through the lounge doorway, but instead of the desired effect, the Potion Master watches, slightly taken aback, as the boy violently flinches and recoils until his back hits the wall. Once he is trapped, he lowers his head and throws his arm up in the air as though to deflect a blow.
Instinctual.
Snape knows this, but even so, he has not steeled himself for Potter’s vulnerable body language, or the way he stays hunched over for a moment, as if taking the time to process he is in no real danger. And even afterwards, when those big green eyes look at him started, there is something in the boy’s face that strikes painfully at the Potion Master’s memories.
“Calm yourself, Potter,” Snape intones after a moment, finding his throat is suddenly a little dry. It takes Harry a moment to regain his composure, and when he does, his head remains bowed, his eyes focusing on the wooden floor beneath his feet as though he is willing it to open up and swallow him whole. Snape does not touch him again, motioning instead for the boy to follow him into the lounge.
With a weary look towards the narrow dark staircase, Harry follows the Professor through a small doorway and into a room surrounded by books, his steps slow and uncertain.
“Sit,” Snape says, pointing at a worn out armchair by the window. For a moment it seems as if the boy doesn’t understand Snape’s direction, but then he sighs and does as instructed, his movements robotic and somewhat laconic. The minute he sits down, his shoulders slouch as though his body is suddenly alien and cumbersome. He lifts his eyes to give the tome packed shelves adorning the walls a cursory look before he avers his gaze towards the muggy window and watches as the drizzle transforms into unrelenting rain.
Save for the rhythmic pelting of rain against the window, there is no sound in Snape’s lounge that grey afternoon. And as he stands there, watching the skinny teenager, the Potions Master cannot help but wonder at what point in the past three weeks the defiant, reckless brat who has disturbed his peace at Hogwarts for six years, metamorphosed into an empty carcass reminiscent of a Dementor’s prey. He quells the immediate outrage this thought provokes within him, as another pair of green eyes enter his mind, watching him accusingly.
I have failed you, Lily, he thinks to himself, watching the still boy seated before him and finding himself unable to trace her in the vacant green eyes, for any boldness that Snape may have associated with Lily is long gone. And yet, so is the arrogance that once painfully reminded him of his bully. The child before him is as empty as a broken canvas.
“Your trunk will arrive tomorrow. I’m sure you can manage without it for one night,” Snape says in his familiar languid drawl, but the boy does not reply. Nor does he give any indication of having heard his professor. Instead, he continues to stare mindlessly out of the window at the falling rain, as though he is hypnotized by it.
It is not that Snape expects him to reply, but the silence is more deafening, somehow more disturbing now that he is alone with the boy, now that he is the only one to witness the damage that has been inflicted on him. Silence, Snape suddenly discovers, is something you can actually hear, and in Potter’s case, it is deafening.
Potter doesn’t touch his dinner that evening, but, to Snape’s relief, he takes the pond sludge resembling phalanx of medicinal potions without even wrinkling his nose in disgust. He drinks all three down like water, the fifteen drachms of Blood Replenishing Potion, the post Skele-Gro tonic, and Snape’s improved Dreamless Sleep concoction, after proving immune to Madam Pomfrey’s regular one. He then resumes to vacantly stare into thin air, his body propped against the pillows, looking somehow paler in the shrunken black pajamas Snape provided him with. The smears of tiredness underneath his eyes stand out even more than when he is dressed in his regular overlarge muggle clothing, and the eyes themselves are dulled beyond recognition. It is a strange sight, Harry Potter sitting in his old childhood bed, curled up underneath the same old grey blanket that had proved a sanctuary for him in those early mornings when the sound of broken plates and rising voices would wake him from his sleep.
It is stranger still that the boy seems to take no notice of him as he leans against the doorframe with folded arms, studying him as if he were a potion that wasn’t turning out the right shade. Once, Snape’s insistent gaze would have had the boy squirming, but now Potter seems so lost within his own world that his surroundings appear almost unhinged from reality. He is relieved when the Dreamless Sleep finally takes effect and Harry’s head drops against the pillows. It is not long after that that those haunted green eyes flutter and close behind the badly mended spectacles. Snape watches as the invisible weight on the boy’s conscious mind lifts whilst he is asleep, taking with it the crease in between his eyebrows. Asleep, he looks much younger than fifteen, much more vulnerable.
Cautiously, he walks over to the boy and seats himself on the edge of the bed, having already ascertained that tending to him would be easier for them both if he were asleep. Reaching out, he takes off Potter’s glasses and places them on the night stand, and before he quite knows what he is doing, long, pale fingers brush the fringe aside from his forehead, and gently trace the swollen scar. The boy does not stir, but a barely audible whimper escapes his lips, as though even whilst asleep he is unaccustomed to being touched unless he’s being struck.
What does it matter if his son is in pain? A sly voice at the back of Snape’s mind whispers. He spent years tormenting you, making fun of you. He almost killed you, for Merlin’s sake. Why should you give a shrivelfig if his son is suffering?
He is her child too, Dumbledore once reminded him. Lily. His best friend, his only defender. You owe her more than a half-hearted attempt to keep him alive.
Snape knows this, but whether or not he decides to acknowledge such an intolerable truth is a different matter altogether, and one he chooses, for the time being, to ignore. For years he has looked after the boy from a distance, staying close enough to make sure he was unharmed, but far enough away to be completely detached from the nuances of his emotions.
He also remembers, with more clarity than he wishes, how broken the boy looked when they brought him into the Hospital Wing a week ago, his body obstructed with a myriad of countless bruises and cuts, some of his limbs sticking out in unnatural angles. With the help of his potions and ointments, Pomfrey’s swift hands restored Potter’s body back to health within a day. But still, he would not wake until several days later. And when he did, he was different, changed in a morbid way.
Snape’s frown deepens as he remembers the sporadic shaking of the boy’s hands and the jaundiced tone of his skin, indicators that his body had been suffering from the aftershocks of extreme exposures to Cruciatus. His eyes then drift to Potter’s skinny arms, and he knows that underneath that shrunken black pajama shirt, the blotched scars have still not fully disappeared. And he also knows that there are others too, on his legs and torso, hinting at an almost fatal loss of blood from being repeatedly cursed with Sectumsempra. He feels a dangerous uptick to his anger upon remembering how Potter’s anemia remained life-threatening even seventy-two hours after Poppy administered a maximum dose of Blood Replenishing Potion.
Yet it is not the bodily signs of Potter’s inexorable torture that disturb the Potions Master the most. It is rather the apparent emptiness behind Potter’s eyes, as if his spirit has been sucked out of him and snapped in half. Gone is the foolish Gryffindor who always wore his heart on his sleeve, Snape thinks, as he watches Potter’s chest rise and fall with the rhythmic breathing of deep sleep. So is the intolerable teenager who always risked his neck without second thoughts, making him feel as though for the past six years he has arduously tried to prolong the life expectancy of a common house fly.
In his stead, Snape finds the empty carcass of a boy, any trace of emotion erased in such a disturbing manner that makes him feel uncomfortable with the silence he had once longed for. It is seeing him so broken, so entangled in a rictus of mental agony that shifts something within the Potions Master, making his chest contract with the unfamiliar weight of…caring. It is an uncomfortable feeling to acknowledge, albeit briefly, and because he does not know how else to make its oppressive presence dissipate, he does the only thing he can think of: he occludes.
One by one, the burdensome feelings of worry, outrage and uneasiness are quelled within the walls of a complexly constructed mental defense, one which has long ago strengthened his reputation as an emotionless, dry man. This, Snape realizes, is a much easier place to be in, compared to the alien one smeared by care and worry. This is familiar territory.
Once he is quite sure the conflicting feelings within him will not re-surface for the evening, he proceeds to take out from a pocket of his outer robe, a small tin container. Opening it, he smears a thick, pale ointment on his fingers, which he then applies on the sleeping boy’s scar, watching as the swelling visibly reduces. Potter does not stir, nor give any other indication that he feels Snape’s ministrations. Once satisfied with the results, the Potions Master swiftly stands and walks towards the door, diminishing the lights with a flick of his wand.
He decides not to dwell on the fact that he chooses to leave the boy’s door slightly ajar, just in case the Dreamless Sleep wears off and he wakes.
Snape is not a heavy drinker, but on those rare occasions where his mind is racing with thoughts he does not particularly want to entertain, Firewhiskey is a welcome fortification. The evening finds him sitting in his armchair by the window, the latest Potions Quarterly open on the coffee table before him, but to his dismay, his usual academic curiosity is somewhat lacking. He has not even glanced over the pile of N.E.W.T. papers he has to mark over the summer, finding the prospect of insulting his students with a cascade of angry red writing suddenly unappealing.
Still, he welcomes the numbing effect of alcohol as it enters his bloodstream, making his shoulders relax, softening the scowl on his face.
But it is too quiet.
At Hogwarts, right before the start of term, he relishes in the clam, in the silence of the corridors and the Great Hall. But things are different now. He can’t quite pin down what it is that has changed, but ever since Potter set foot in his home, the silence he once found soothing has become oppressive.
He does not have much time to dwell on this thought, however, for in the next minute, the sound of someone knocking on his front door ripples through his silent dwelling. Scowling, he stands up, picks up his wand, and makes his way down the hallway, glancing briefly at the mantel clock: 11:45pm. With an expression sour enough to curdle milk, he unlocks the door and swiftly opens it.
“Good evening, Severus. I was just in the neighbourhood and thought I would stop by for a nightcap.”
Arching an eyebrow in disbelief, Snape moves out of the way in order to allow Dumbledore to come in, his eyes resting for a moment on the rather flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet, and bow tie in yellow and brown polka dots.
“I haven’t dissected him for potions ingredients, if that’s what you are here to ascertain,” he says in mock annoyance as he leads the way towards the lounge, causing the older man behind him to chuckle. Once inside the lounge, Dumbledore lowers himself in the armchair by the fireplace, running a hand through his tangled beard.
“Firewhiskey?” Snape asks and the older man nods.
“I see that you have been indulging yourself, my friend,” Dumbledore says as his twinkling eyes rest on the empty glass on the coffee table.
“I am not immune to the appeal of alcohol’s psychoactive effects,” Snape says as he pours Dumbledore a tumbler of the amber liquid before refilling his own. He then sits down, crosses his legs and takes a sip of his drink. Seeing the man’s amused expression, he adds: “I needed to unwind.”
Snape is accustomed to the headmaster showing up on his doorstep unannounced, and despite the scowls and sour looks with which he often greets the man, he enjoys his mentor’s company. It is almost as though Dumbledore senses when the younger man is in need of some extra guidance, each time just happening to be in the vicinity and stopping by for a cup of tea, a trivial potion that would take him minutes to brew at Hogwarts, or a nightcap.
A highly sensitive man by nature, Dumbledore knows that it is best he does not show his concern; instead he broaches sensitive topics in carefully laid out pattern of trivialities. It is almost like conversing in a special code language. By the end of the conversation the topic is left undiscussed, and yet its essence is very much dissected, advice is being offered and Snape is left feeling more at ease. Not that he would ever admit such a thing.
This time, however, the matter at hand is suddenly too serious to evade.
“I should have found him sooner,” Snape suddenly confesses, the thought having weighted on him since they first brought Potter into the Hospital Wing, all bruised and battered. There is no emotion in his voice, but the declaration itself is enough to make Dumbledore’s eyes soften. “I am in the Dark Lord’s inner circle and yet I had no knowledge of the boy’s location for weeks,” Snape persists. “He does not trust me enough.”
“Perhaps,” Dumbledore agrees, a pensive look in his eyes. “But you did locate him. The boy is safe because you saved him. The Order would not have found him without your help. And you did so without compromising your position as a spy. Forgive me Severus, but I fear this time there is more to be celebrated than mourned.”
“I cannot do it Albus,” Snape says after a moment of silence. “He is too broken…I cannot fix him. Perhaps if Black were still alive he would get through to the boy. What chance do I have? He hates me, and for good reason too.”
“I beg your pardon Severus, but I think Harry is incapable of hating anyone,” Dumbledore says in a calm, almost detached voice. “For years, you have kept him safe because he is Lily’s son, and yet you kept your distance because he reminds you of James. But he is more than the child of two people you once knew. He is himself. He is a boy with a big heart who has lost more by the age of fifteen than most people do in a lifetime.”
“He never thinks!” Snape suddenly snaps, feeling a dangerous uptick to his anger. “He rushes into precarious situations without even stopping to consider the repercussions! He knew the blood wards wouldn’t protect him outside his relatives’ house, but that didn’t stop him! And look where his arrogance led him! He was captured and tortured for three weeks before I could locate him. Have you looked at him Albus? He acts as though he’s been kissed by a Dementor! I can mend his bones, heal his bruises, but bring his soul back? Thank I cannot do,” he thunders, taking another bitter sip of his Firewhiskey, the angry crease in between his eyebrows deepening.
“Perhaps he does not need to be fixed, as such. I believe he is merely hiding,” Dumbledore says by way of explanation, his eyes beginning to twinkle in a way that only makes Snape’s scowl deepen.
“Hiding,” Snape says flatly.
“Accidental defensive magic,” Dumbledore intones. “It seems to me that just before Harry reached his breaking point, his magic lashed inwardly to protect him, trapping his conscious mind inside an unplanned, but nevertheless efficient mental defense. This quite possibly rendered him immune to the pain his body was enduring. A rare occurrence, but not unheard of, as I’m sure you know.”
“Unintentional Occlumency, Albus? Need I remind you how pathetically incompetent he was at the discipline a few months ago?” Snape snarls, his voice so dry it seems almost cutting.
“I think Harry’s inability to master Occlumency when you taught him had more to do with his refusal to apply himself as opposed to his lack of talent in the field. Besides, we are not discussing a conscious defense, but rather a raw, unfiltered show of magic. One which is as powerful as it is dangerous. We need to delve into the deepest recesses of his mind, break past his subconscious defense and bring him back.” Dumbledore’s voice remained soft, but by the end of his speech it had acquired an urgent tone.
“Your belief in my apparent omnipotence regarding this issue is somewhat disconcerting,” Snape says after a moment, his black eyes watching his mentor with annoyed resignation.
“Not at all, Severus, I am simply being logical. You are more in accord with Harry’s emotions than anyone else he knows.” At Snape’s disgusted grimace, Dumbledore adds, “How can it be otherwise? You have spent countless nights attempting to fortify his mind against Voldemort.”
“Yes, and in case it has escaped your notice, my attempts have been futile,” Snape says drily.
“Perhaps you simply ought to change your methods, my friend. Sometimes we catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,” Dumbledore says, his gaze somewhat intense behind the semi-lunar spectacles.
“I will not coddle him,” Snape coldly intones after a moment.
“Nor am I asking you to, Severus,” Dumbledore replies softly. “However, given Harry’s fragile state of mind, I believe you can make the effort of being slightly more approachable than a nestling dragon. I assure you, your reputation will not suffer.”
“Honestly Albus…”
“I have every faith in you my friend, that you will find a way to break past Harry’s mental defenses and help him. You are, after all, already familiar with the deepest recesses of his mind.”
“You are an equally accomplished Legilimens,” Snape protests.
“Absolutely,” Dumbledore agrees, taking a sip of his drink, “However, as a result of your lessons with Harry, you already established a mental connection with him. I believe a familiar anchor will prove crucial to his recovery.”
Snape can only reply with a resigned sigh. He knows there is no point in further arguing with the Headmaster. He thinks of the boy sleeping upstairs in his childhood bedroom, thinks of those vacant green eyes, and realizes, perhaps for the first time, that his reservations were disgorged long before Dumbledore came for his perfectly timed nightcap.
You owe her more than a half-hearted attempt to keep him alive.
When Harry wakes up, he feels rather disorientated, as though the world has tilted on its axis and his body has not yet adjusted to the change. There is an oppressive lump inside his chest, and he feels as if he swallowed a rain cloud whole. His palms feel sweaty and a million thoughts begin to run through his head, but before he can fully grasp them, his mind goes blank. Yet it is not a blissful kind of blankness, because although the details of his thoughts are hazy, the feelings associated with them are amalgamated into an oppressive ball of confusion. Pain, fear, anguish, they all stick out of his chest like the branches of a distorted tree. He doesn’t know how to feel them, or what to do with them, so he squeezes his eyes shut until they dissipate.
It is not hard for Harry to lock his feeling away. Ever since waking up in the Hospital Wing and suddenly finding his body free of pain, he feels as if he is less and less entangled in the tinges of reality. Sometimes, when his mind is particularly empty, he feels as though he is floating away from his own body.
Floating away like Sirius.
Was the veil a dream too? Was it all inside his head? He can’t tell anymore. He doesn’t feel anymore. Voldemort made sure of that. He has trouble distinguishing between what is factual and what is not. Is this bed real? Harry wonders as he grabs a fistful of the warm, grey blanket covering him. It feels real, he reasons as the soft fabric brushes against the skin of his palm. But then again, it could be a trick of my mind. I could open my eyes right now and find myself back in that cold, humid cell, waiting for Lucius Malfoy to come and get me and--
Harry frowns when he opens his eyes again, because the room has not shifted. He is still in bed, his body warm underneath the covers, his head resting against a soft pillow. The worn-out wooden wardrobe is still in the corner, the small desk has not shifted from the window, and nor have the dusty old tomes resting on top of it. Above the bed, the old Slytherin banner is still tangible, but the greens and greys are a different shade to the ones he remembers from school and the serpent is a different shape altogether. Probably an old design, he muses before his eyes fall on an old pewter cauldron collecting dust next to the wardrobe. It has a large hole in its base and Harry wonders for a second what sort of corrosive potion could have possibly created such damage.
Snape.
He is staying with Snape. He doesn’t really understand why he is staying with his Potions Professor, and he knows that under different circumstances this fact would repulse him. But, as he lays in bed, Harry realizes he does not feel anything about this either. Like he doesn’t feel anything when he thinks of Sirius, or the Dursleys, or Ron and Hermione. It is almost as though his compass has been knocked out of whack. Everything inside his head is scrambled, all emotions seemingly gone.
Through the grey muddled haze of his thoughts, Harry’s ears pick up the sound of plates being set on the table downstairs, a frying pan placed on the stove, and moments later, the smell of frying bacon wafting through the air. The groused sound his stomach makes reminds him that his body is asking for sustenance even though he does not feel particularly hungry.
Sluggishly swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Harry rubs his eyes, picks up his glasses and stands up. His legs, still weak after being mended, wobble a bit before they get used to his weight. For a moment, he forgets what it is that he has to do, so he just stands in the middle of the room, listening to the heavy rain outside his window. There is something captivating about the rain, Harry thinks, about the way in which each droplet falls from the sky and crushes when it reaches something solid. It is somehow metaphoric, he muses: the mechanism of the world is built on death and destruction.
What does it matter if Voldemort wants to kill me today, tomorrow or the day after? I’m going to die anyway, sooner or later. What’s the point in prolonging it? Sirius is dead because of me. Or was that a dream? I can’t seem to remember. Either way, he will die because of me. Everyone will die because of me.
They should have let him finish what he started. I’m already dead.
Snape is sitting at the kitchen table with his legs crossed. His eyes are scanning a copy of the Daily Prophet, a mug of black coffee steaming before him. He knows the boy is awake, the creaking floorboards directly above him have been a good indicator of this fact. But it has been fifteen minutes and there is still no sign of the brat. He’s got another thing coming if he expects breakfast in bed, the Potions Master thinks. He supposes he ought to create some sort of schedule for the child. After all, Dumbledore mentioned the importance of familiarity to his recovery.
But what sort of schedule does one create for a boy who seems to have forgotten that he is alive? Remember to breathe? Eat? Sleep? An unfamiliar helplessness washes over Snape as he muses over the damage that has been inflicted on Lily’s son. It is not, he thinks with a frown, the fact that his pre-conceived ideas of Harry Potter have been thrown out of the window the minute they brought him into the Hospital Wing. It is, rather, the complete helplessness concerning his ability to help him. How can he possibly fix a boy he never took the time to actually get to know?
When he looks up from the newspaper, Potter is standing uncertainly in the kitchen doorway. His hair is, if possible, even more disheveled than the day before, and his glasses stand a little crooked on his nose, as though he did not bother to adjust them properly. His eyes are cast on his empty feet and his hands stand lankily by his sides, instruments he seems to have forgotten how to use.
“I do not have all day, Potter. Sit down and eat!” he snaps, because he does not know how else to react to the deafening silence. The boy briefly flinches at the sudden sharpness, and then mechanically obeys the command. Sitting himself at the table, he picks up a fork and gives the fried egg on his plate a tentative poke. He allows the egg yolk to smear all over the plate before taking a cautious bite. It seems to Snape as if he hardly believes the food on his plate is real.
An inexplicable surge of anger washes over the Potions Master at this thought. He watches the boy with a look of absolute concentration that months ago would have had him squirming. This time, however, Potter is so far enclosed into the walls of his subconscious mind, that he gives no indication of having noticed.
When he is no longer certain he can contain his anger, Snape abruptly stands from the kitchen table and makes his way in long strides towards a door on his left. “I will be in my lab,” he says but Harry does not look up from his plate. A moment later, he opens the door and disappears down a flight of stairs leading to the basement.
Unlike the child in his kitchen, potions are predictable; he knows exactly how much heat to give them, how many times to stir and strain them in order to make them behave in a certain way. But now, for the first time in his life, he feels completely at a loss regarding what conditions he ought to create in order to help Potter heal. His usual obsession with order and propriety is suddenly challenged by an unprecedented emotional instability. He has no idea how to break past the wall the boy seems to have created around him. And, if by some miracle he does manage to do so, he is even less certain of what he would find on the other side.
Snape starts preparing the boy’s medicinal potions, just so that he can give himself something to do. With adroit hands, he reduces the Blood Replenishing Potion to thirteen drachms as instructed by Madam Pomfrey, adds an extra scarab beetle to the post Skele-Gro tonic, and prepares the ingredients for brewing a fresh batch of Dreamless Sleep potion to be ready by the time Potter goes to bed. He can hear the rain outside thickening and, a few minutes later, a thunder roars so loud the whole house shakes a little from its vibration. When he turns around from his cabinet of ingredients to prepare his work space, he notices, with some degree of surprise, that Potter is sitting on the steps outside his lab his back hunched, his hands covering his ears and his eyes wide and scared. When the second thunder resounds through the house, the boy squeezes his eyes shut as if in physical pain.
“It’s all right Potter, it’s just thunder,” he finds himself saying in an uncharacteristically soft voice. Harry’s eyes open and for the first time since his arrival at Spinner’s End he looks, really looks at Snape. It is a haunted, pleading look that deeply unsettles the Potions Master. When the third boom resonates through the house, the boy leaps to his feet and in three quick strides he is standing next to Snape, his shoulders hunched and his head bowed, shaking like a common street dog.
“What is it about the thunderstorm, Potter?” Snape asks, but the boy gives no indication of having heard him. The sound of the next thunder has him visibly attempt to make himself as small as possible, as if he is hiding from some invisible enemy who wishes to harm him. Before he is able to stop himself, Snape places a tentative hand on the boy’s bony shoulder.
Potter does not flinch and, to his surprise, the shaking visibly lessens. Scared green eyes look up at him from behind a messy black fringe, and for a moment, Snape cannot help but wonder if the teenager before him has been mentally de-aged to a young child. But then, there is a flash of mild recognition and outrage in the green eyes, one which makes the boy shake off the Potion Master’s hand from his shoulder and take a step back. A look resembling mild mortification creeps upon his features.
Ah, some of the old brat must still be in there, Snape muses with some degree of relief. The Harry Potter he knew would never voluntarily come this close to him.
With the next dramatic roar, however, the mild normalcy is suddenly gone and Harry’s green eyes gloss over once more with fear and confusion. He looks up at Snape, the animosity he felt towards his teacher seconds earlier seemingly evaporated, and his eyes plead for protection.
Drawing out his wand, Snape points it towards the ceiling. “Insulato,” he chants in a steady deep voice as a jet of warm light erupts from the tip of his wand and rapidly spreads across the entire dwelling like an exhalation of fresh air. Suddenly, the roaring thunder is muffled and then completely drowned by the spell, and Spinner’s End is silent once more.
“You are safe,” Snape intones after a moment. Potter bows his head down as if a part of him is ashamed of his display of weakness. “Do not do that,” Snape says flatly, making Harry look up at him in mild confusion. “Do not look embarrassed,” he clarifies, his hard eyes boring into Harry’s for a moment, probing them for some of that Gryffindor pride he found infuriating mere months earlier. But he finds nothing familiar behind those troubled green orbs. Once the trigger of his panic has been diminished, the boy is enveloped once more into the deafening comfort of his emotional detachment.
Yet it is a self-imposed comfort, Snape realizes. Although outwardly detached from his emotions, Potter’s body is still weighted down by his grief, physically hunched over as if he is not strong enough to bear the air on his shoulders. And Snape also knows that preventing Potter from enduring the triggers of his trauma would not help him overcome his elective muteness. The only way out is through, he muses with resigned starkness.
“In one minute, I will lift the spell from this house, and you will listen to the thunder,” Snape orders in a hard voice, watching as Harry takes a step back from him, his eyes filling once more with uncensored fear. Terror, even. “You will not cover your ears, nor will you close your eyes. You will stand here with me and you will listen. And nothing is going to happen to you.” Throughout his speech, the Potion Master keeps his eyes on the boy’s paling face, his resolve not faltering even when Harry begins shaking his head. “Stand your ground,” he says remorselessly, choosing to ignore the way the boy’s lips have parted, the way his breathing has become more labored.
The first thunder does not resonate immediately after Insulato is lifted. But when it does, Harry automatically covers his ears, turns away from the Potions Master and squeezes his eyes shut as if expecting to be cursed. “No!” Snape harshly intones, walking up to the shaking boy in three long strides, grabbing his hands and yanking them down to his sides, where he holds them in a strong grip that Harry is unable to dislodge. He pulls the boy’s back close to his torso and holds him there as the next thunder reverberates through the house. “Listen,” he says from somewhere above Harry’s head, his iron grip not relaxing even when a small whimper escapes the boy’s lips. Harry shakes his head and bows his head.
“Open your eyes, Harry,” he commands in a soft, silky voice, ignoring the way he can feel the frantic beating of the boy’s heart.
It is the utterance of his first name that does it.Harry.
Not spoken in jest as the Death Eaters had done. Not even uttered with the customary sneer that he always associated with that deep, silky voice.
Just Harry. Open your eyes, Harry.
And he does, because somehow, being held like that against the man’s chest, with his hands pinned down, is comforting. His nose can detect the faint scent of peppermint and nutmeg and then his ears pick up the sound of a softly bubbling cauldron to his right.
His heart still beats against his ribs with tough, quick, dry strokes. His mouth is still dry, his cheeks still wet with the tears he is unware his eyes are crying. But that horrible cavernous emptiness inside his chest is suddenly less pronounced. Harry looks around and for the first time since coming down to Snape’s basement lab he scans his surroundings. Thick wooden shelves and worn out cabinets adorn every surface of the grey walls, on them resting numerous jars filled with animal parts, powders, strange liquids and herbs. A round work table stands to his left, and from the corner of his red rimmed eye, Harry notices a bicorn horn, half of which is already ground into thin powder. Next to it, black shimmering beetle carapaces glow black with a tinge of blood. Have I interrupted Snape mid-brewing? part of him wonders, but then the next thunder resounds so loudly through the lab that his breath hitches in his throat.
Suddenly his wide eyes see too many details, too many colours. It is all white noise, turned up full volume as if his mind can no longer tune out what is irrelevant. Everything is relevant and everything is oppressive.
“Breathe, Harry,” the silky voice reminds him.
But it is not enough this time.
He starts struggling, trying, in vain to break free from the Potion Master’s iron grip. Everything is suddenly dangerous, everything swirls. He doesn’t know if the danger is real or imagined, but he doesn’t care. The fight of flight response has already set in, taking over him like Imperius.
“Calm yourself!” the silky voice intones, this time the tone sharper. But it doesn’t matter, his mind no longer has control over is body as his legs continue to struggle.
Too many details.
His lungs feel suddenly deprived of air, they hurt with the effort of breathing; that terrible cavernous space inside his chest is back, spreading though him like corrosive acid. He cries out…and then his left arm is suddenly freed, but before he has time to lash it out, a warm, calloused palm comes over his eyes.
Everything goes black, there are no more details, no more colours. The thunder fades away, even the sound of his frantically beating heart is drowned by the sudden blackness.
“Breathe,” the silky voice urges, a steady anchor in the darkness.
And Harry does, because somehow he trusts that voice, trusts the large hand covering his eyes, the firm, darkly clad chest supporting his trembling body.
Somehow, he trusts Snape.